Hyperia is too much born of her element to understand the world around her. She has not yet picked up on the nuances of sarcasm or boredom or disdain. She cannot pick apart these things to tell the greater story they tell once they are weaved together. So it is with the absolute utmost innocence that she stares at the other nymph, her red eyes blinking away the water that streams down her childish face. She considers the question of the other mare for a second, chewing on it before giving an altogether too elegant shrug.
“I don’t have visitors,” she says bluntly, her voice singing around the tide in her mouth. “But people seem to come less at night, if that’s what you’re asking.” A simple upward curve of her lip. “I think that’s because people are sleeping, but you can never be sure.” She certainly couldn’t. She had no real idea of what kept others away during the evening or what drew them here during the day and her hold on sleep was a tenuous thing. She tended to catch her rest in liquid form, floating lazily down the river.
But she is not put off by Wrenley in the slightest and doesn’t hesitate to take a step further.
She studies her intently for a moment before nodding. “You’re right,” she affirms, her voice light and yet weighty, the youth of it carrying the pitch up higher than where it will settle in maturity. “I don’t think I have ever seen anyone like you.” She’s seen plenty around the river. Others with larger gifts or brighter coats. Others markedly more plain. But none quiet like the evening nymph before her, although she is not certain exactly what that has to do with anything. “My name is Hyperia,” she finally offers.
It only feels polite.
@[Wrenley]